The hunters came driving through town doing eighty,
the carcasses of wolves tied in cruciform
to the hood of their trucks. I could hear God’s voice
in my head shouting, Let us make us in our own image!
The Pink Lady Slippers in the woods
hung like carcasses on hooks and the lights of ranches
twinkled in the valley below and damn, we could hear,
with a kind of clairaudience, the stars clicking their pistols.
There was a red fox like a blood smear
in the wild lilac of my mother’s abandoned homestead
and black-blotch shadows of hawks and ravens,
like sweeping rorshachs,
the bird-like leaps of the heart’s wonder.